


Après le déluge, nous

by Silvereye



Category: Sunless Sea
Genre: F/F, Kissing, Love in the Time of Horror and Misery, POV Second Person, Past Character Death, Post-Canon, Sunless Skies compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-29
Updated: 2020-04-29
Packaged: 2021-03-02 00:34:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23906251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvereye/pseuds/Silvereye
Summary: You die when the Sixth City falls. But that's quite alright. You have died before.The Merciless Modiste and the Pirate-Poet, after things have changed in the Neath.
Relationships: The Merciless Modiste/The Pirate Poet
Comments: 4
Kudos: 5
Collections: Minigame: Round 1





	Après le déluge, nous

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ried (riiiied)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/riiiied/gifts).



> ried - I really liked your "Love in the Time of Horror and Misery" freeform. This fic ended up a bit different than I originally planned, but I hope you like it.

You die when the Sixth City falls. But that's quite alright. You have died before. This time you have chosen a truly opportune place for it: a spot out in the Marshes, far enough from the zee that the Fathomking has no claim on you, not so far inland that a building would crush you.

The Poet finds you before you come to your senses, and so you wake in a pitiable little shack that no one cared to take with them when London left. She's sitting by the door. Your eyes are blurry, but you know it's her. The set of her shoulders gives her away. So does the creak of the wall every time she adjusts her pose and the fact that it is the only noise she makes at all.

You could not discern a human's heartbeat from this distance. That was something you used to tell more gullible zailors. But you would hear breathing and there is none.

"Hello, darling," you say. Your voice cracks, unaccustomed to use after however many days it has been.

"Modiste," she says and sighs.

"You are remarkably glum. A city dropped on us and we survived it."

She says nothing. You sit up, swing your legs over the edge of the bed and manage to walk far enough to collapse on top of her. You make it look like you intended it.

She catches you easily enough. Her hands are still as strong and sure as you remember, fit for cutlass and pen and chisel alike. Her eyes, however, are far-off, even when you settle down in her lap with her arm around your shoulders.

You wait. Provoking her is only fun when she's already angry.

"Is there a sea more sunless?" she finally quotes, and the longing in her voice would be enough to sweep you off your feet if you were not already sitting down.

There is. You have heard the stories that trickled down from the High Wilderness, same as she did. The Neath is dark, but it still has the occasional flickers of the Dawn Machine and the hole in the roof above Aestival. Somewhere past the Avid Horizon there is a place that has not known no light but that of a few scattered ports for centuries.

"You could have gone," you say. The Gate is closed now, but that is a recent development. "There were enough ships."

She is quiet. Then: "No. I know about sunlight. And I know you have lost in Knife-and-Candle a few times. I could not have gone."

You kiss her, furiously and artlessly. She catches your face between her large clever hands and kisses back. Your blood sings. It has been so long - far too long. The only reason you do not unlace her shirt right now is that you are in a damp half-ruined cottage in the outskirts of the city. When you take her to bed after all these years there should be something grander than this.

"Let's go," you breathe, when you are able to do so.

"Where?" she says, amused. "Fallen Paris is in disarray. Not much to do there and there will not be many ships available to go elsewhere."

"They will have wines straight from the Surface," you say, tracing a line down her neck, over an old eroded line of iambic pentameter. "They will not have Parabola-linen bedsheets yet, but I suppose we will have to manage. There will be _a lot_ to do."

The Poet does not swallow. She looks at you steadily, and smiles, and says yes.


End file.
